Here There Be Dragons
Chapter Four - Chance
The inn door swung open at Chance’s light push. No one took much notice of him as he entered. A young man, dressed in patched clothes and sporting a cloak and large pack didn’t attract much interest. A couple of people glanced at the longsword hanging at his side, but weapons were common in this land, and this one looked rusted; it would be a miracle if he could even draw the sword from its scabbard.
Besides, their attention was focused on the far more enigmatic character at the other end of the room, standing by the fire. He had a wooden goblet in one hand and a slur to his voice to indicate the state of his mind.
“…and so the prince got hisself a real wench after all!” he said, evidently finishing a story. Laughs and cheers spread through the room, and Chance found a seat in a dim-lighted corner. No one noticed as he shifted his pack to the floor, handling it carefully, as if worried that it might be harmed.
“Eh George,” called a man from the crowd, “are you sure it was the prince and not yourself who ended up with the wench?”
The drunken man snarled. “Damn ye, Ryder! Always looking for a fight, you worthless scrag!”
Ryder shrugged. “At least I don’t drink myself stupid enough to not notice when someone’s picked my pocket!”
The atmosphere of the tavern suddenly grew very heated as George fumbled blearily with his belt and roared, “The cur’s right! He musta stole it!”
Men rose and a brawl broke out. In the noise of it all, Chance sighed. He had been hoping to find a quiet room after getting a bit of food. He picked up the pack from the floor, supporting it securely as if it were heavy, and rested it on his lap.
The pack shifted; a slightly muffled voice said cheerfully, “Well master, what do you propose now?”
“I’m half-tempted to leave, but I doubt there are any other inns in this town.”
“There’s always the stables,” the voice suggested.
“I’ve half a mind to stick you in there.”
“Now, now, Chance, don’t be doing anything rash. You wouldn’t want me to slip out for a bite and cause a stir, would you?”
“Shut up. Someone’s looking at me.”
Chance glanced cursorily at the elderly man squinting at him. The man shook his head and muttered to himself, “Must be drinking too much. Boys talking to bags.”
The pack chuckled; Chance frowned at it, then dropped it none-too-lightly on the floor again. It hit the ground with a thud and a muffled, “Ow!” Chance didn’t seem to notice, and instead turned his attention back to the rest of the room, which was calming down. The innkeeper, a fat man with a booming voice was quickly restoring order.
“George! Quit your yelping! Your wallet wasn’t stolen, you dropped it on the floor right by your feet!”
People began to settle down, forgetting that they had been accusing each other of being the thief and returning to their usual amiable selves. The instigator, Ryder, was subtly sneaking away from the light of the fire.
“Ryder! I see you slinking off! I tell you man, if you keep it up I’ll ban ye from the inn! Bad for business, not to mention my head.” And with several mutterings and oaths, the innkeeper stomped away.
“I’ll have none of this,” Ryder announced. “The vagrant lot of you isn’t worth my time anyway.” He looked around defiantly at the crowded room amid a chorus of protests and returned insults. His eyes fell upon Chance and rested there for a second longer. Chance squirmed, uncomfortable with the momentary attention, and Ryder seemed to realize he was staring. Haughtily, he strode to the door and left the inn with a slam.
A certain tranquility settled over the inn now, as people quietly discussed the scene and gave their opinions of the man. Chance, sensing an opportunity, kept his eyes trained on the waitress until she came over.
“What can I do for you?” she asked languidly, eyeing him up and down. Her expression didn’t seem too impressed; indeed, between the patched breeches and the stained tunic, he didn’t quite look like the highest clientele.
“I’d like some food,” Chance replied.
“Fancy that,” the waitress retorted. “What kind?”
Chance bit back the reply of, “The edible kind,” and instead said politely, “Some bread, a little fruit, and a large bit of meat, please.”
“What kind?” she repeated.
“The reddest type you have.”
The waitress shrugged. “That’ll be seven coppers.”
“Seven?” Chance cried.
She fixed him with a stare. “Yes, seven. It would have been four if you didn’t want the meat.”
Chance waved a weary hand. “Fine, fine, here.” He reached into his pack, muttered something, and withdrew seven small copper coins. The waitress snapped them from his palm and tripped daintily off.
“A fine cost you are,” Chance hissed as he bent by the floor, fiddling with something in his pack.
“You’re the one who employed my services,” returned a cheery voice.
“I almost wish I hadn’t.”
“Too late. Our oath has been said, and you’re not rid of me ‘til our deed is done, unless you’d like to give me the steel and free me of my promise now.”
Chance sighed heavily. “I hope the journey will not be long.”
“Where’s that meat? I’m starved.”
“It’s coming.” Chance cast a wary glance at a nearby couple sitting at a neighboring table and being a bit too conspicuous about not listening. “Keep quiet now, and no more talking.”
“I’m not the one who started this conversation.”
“Shh!”
The pack shuffled disconsolately before settling down with a strange thump, while Chance looked blithely around at the rest of the crowded room.
The food came in the hands of the waitress, who plunked the plate down without much ceremony. Chance ate the bread and fruit, glanced casually around, and when satisfied that he was unobserved, slipped the meat into his pack. A muffled cry of delight was instantly cut short by Chance hissing, “Shut it!”
A couple of men who were discussing business in an undertone glanced his way; he flashed them an overly-cheerful smile, hefted up his pack, and disappeared into the crowded place to find a room.
*****
Chance set the pack down on the floor, gently. “You can come out now, Jot. I’ve closed and locked everything.”
“Windows, too?”
“Yes. What do you think I meant by ‘everything’?”
“Just checking. You seem like the forgetful type.”
“How so?” Chance asked indignantly, settling onto the bed and pulling off his worn boots.
The pack rustled and the flap opened; out slunk the dragon. It stretched luxuriously, stuck out its forked tongue as it examined the place, and spread its wings out full length.
“You just do,” Jot said, answering Chance’s question.
The boy grunted and examined his footwear’s soles. “I’ll need to get some new boots as well.”
“You’re going to need a complete new wardrobe.” The dragon leapt lightly onto the bed beside Chance and started scratching the sheets.
“Stop that,” Chance snapped.
“Make me,” Jot retorted, raising his upper lip to reveal glinting spikes of teeth. “This is good for my claws.”
“How?”
Jot didn’t answer; he simply flicked his tail and jumped down. “Shabby place,” he commented. “I’ve seen troll caves that are nicer.”
“You can sleep in the stable if you don’t like it,” Chance said, unstrapping his belt.
Jot snorted, making a little plume of smoke. “You wouldn’t let me out of your sight for a moment. Now, where’s my bed?”
Chance set one of the two pillows from the bed onto the floor. “Satisfied?”
“Not really, but I’ll make do.”
“Just don’t ruin it.”
No answer; the little dragon was already curled up, tucking its wings neatly by its side and wrapping its tail around the pillow.
Chance yawned; it had been a long, tiring day. He sank down gratefully onto the bed and let the welcoming warmth of slumber enclose…
A sudden sharp prick on his stomach made him sit straight up, arms flailing. “What?” he snapped.
Jot removed his claw and said, a little plaintively, “I’m just feeling a little cold. Would you mind if…?”
Chance groaned. “Whatever!”
“Many thanks, sir. I greatly appreciate it.” The dragon slid under the covers beside Chance. “You won’t notice me, not at all; just make sure you don’t roll over here; I’m not going to hold account for my spikes. And if I hit you with a wing, it’s just because I was dreaming of flying and hunting—”
“Silent! Now!” Jot’s voice instantly stopped, and with some relief, Chance was finally able to fall asleep.
Only to be awaked not much later, in Chance’s opinion, by a high, wavering voice singing a forlorn song.
“And my foe was vanquished by claw and by tooooth!”
Chance opened a bleary eye. The sound seemed to be coming from beneath the bed.
“And here now I speaketh only the truuuth.”
With a sigh, Chance glanced at the window; yellow light streamed through the slats. It was morning, at least.
“I’ll fight you forever, forever you’ll be, my sweet-tasting, light-boned supper for me.”
“A-hem,” said Chance, rolling onto his side and glaring at the dragon on the floor.
Jot looked up. “Your blood will flow to my mouth and my heart,” he announced.
“Stop that.”
“As I rend you to pieces and tear you apart!”
With a disgusted sigh, Chance sat up. Jot instantly stood and stretched his front limbs. “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for hours now.”
“I needed that rest. Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages.”
“That would explain your odd looking face.”
Chance didn’t even rise to the jab. He simply dropped his feet to the ground, paused, then hefted himself up to stand. Jot played idly with a dead rat; Chance didn’t ask where it had come from.
“We leave this village in an hour,” Chance announced, pulling on his tunic. “And then we’ll be on the road.”
Jot snorted. “That’s not going to happen. You’ll get distracted, you won’t find what you’re looking for, and we won’t end up leaving for at least two hours.”
As it turned out, Jot’s prediction nearly rang true. It took at least a half hour for them to leave the inn; Chance breakfasted and paid, only to find as they were leaving that he had forgotten a small knife in his room. Of course, Chance didn’t feel the need to specify just what he had left behind, and the innkeeper was loath to let the boy back into the room without an explanation. The ensuing hassle left Chance nearly hopping in impatience and Jot (in the pack) snickering. When the innkeeper finally let Chance return to the room, the boy discovered that the knife was actually in his boot, and he hastily departed under the glares of the innkeeper and his wife, who had gotten involved.
“Snappy times, eh?” said a muffled voice.
“Shut up,” Chance muttered, stepping into the crowded street. “Now I’ve got to find armor and a horse.”
“Try the armorer.”
“I told you to be quiet.”
“Fine.” A sniff, a rustling in the pack, and silence. Chance felt something sharp poking into his back; supposedly, it was the dragon being provoking and jabbing him with its spikes.
“Why did I ever think to bring it along with me?” he sighed.
Jot’s voice was barely audible from the pack’s depths. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
Be sure to have the next up part for little Skinsy here, or I shall devour your face.
